Letters from Plastic Beach
by The Mauve Lantern
Summary: I don't know if anyone will find these messages in bottles, but I hope they reach somebody. The people need to know the truth behind Plastic Beach, before it's too late. The answers are all here; all they need is for you to uncover them. Please, read!
1. Chapter 1

**Letters from Plastic Beach**

By The Mauve Lantern

To whoever finds this letter:

My name is Daniel Blake. I am 31 years old, a reporter from London, and a graduate of Oxford. For the past two years, I have been on an investigation into the whereabouts of the world's most eccentric and enigmatic band. My research has taken me from Britain to the ends of the world, and I have discovered many wonderful and fantastic things, including the location of the band's guitarist and the reason behind the recent string of mysterious disappearances. But I am afraid that my profession has earned me the ire of certain parties, which leads me to my current predicament.

My name is Daniel Blake, and I have been kidnapped.

To understand what has become of me, you must understand what I have been doing for the past two years. I have been studying the band Gorillaz, a group that has become a world-wide phenomena with such hits as "Clint Eastwood," "Feel Good Inc.," and "Dirty Harry." The band consists of Stuart Potts, known as 2D by most, Murdoc Nichols, demonic bassist, Russel Hobbs, enormous drummer, and Noodle, a Japanese guitarist with a twisted history. A few years after the release of their ground-breaking album, Demon Days, the band split up after the supposed death of Noodle with no one ever finding the truth behind the break-up. As per my boss's orders, I embarked on a journey to learn the truth behind the band and what had become of them.

I still remember how I first got this assignment, still remember when I discovered I was in over my head. This was just after Gorillaz had released their final single, "El Mañana," and near everyone with a computer or television had seen the music video they released save for myself. I was never big on the music scene, preferring a good book and silence to all that noise, but when a coworker of mine showed me the video, I became curious and inquisitive about Gorillaz. It didn't help that the band refused to talk about the video and what went wrong. Suddenly, I wanted to know more about this band, find out what had happened in that video, and try to uncover the truth behind the band's lies. And as luck would have it, that's what my boss agreed on as well. So I set out to Kong Studios with a sense of adventure. This was not fiction…it was real.

I arrived at the dilapidated music studio some weeks later, only to find that there was nobody inhabiting the place. And how could they: one of the walls had all but collapsed, every single window was broken, and the building reeked of decay and, dare I say, death. Crows flew over my head and squawked up to the dark heavens. Hell, even the sky around the studio was a depressing gray, despite it being a beautiful day elsewhere. On the way up, I had wondered why there weren't many reporters sitting outside waiting for answers; one look at Kong told me right away why no one was there.

With much caution, I rang the buzzer once. No one answered, so I tapped it a second time a moment later. Still nothing there. A third time proved to be just as useless. There wasn't much I could do save knock down the door; I did just that after much careful thought. I would not be denied this story, even if it meant I would be arrested for breaking and entering.

When I rammed the door with my shoulder, an enormous shock ran through my arm. Not the electric kind, mind you, but the kind of feeling you get when you knock your funny bone. It hurt like a bitch, but the door got the worst of it. The bloody thing fell right off its rusty hinges and collapsed onto the ground with a great thud. And I was in.

If the outside was bad, the inside was even worse. In the room I walked into, the main foyer, the floor and furniture was covered in shit and muck, the window on the other side of the room was gone entirely, and everything else reeked of mildew and dust. Everything carried a horrible odor, something I could not place my finger on until much later. It was the stink of rotting corpses. But this did not put me off nor throw me out; I was determined to see this through. So with my nose covered by my scarf, I set out to explore the studio.

The rest of the studio wasn't much better than the main lobby, but that was only because there was the added benefit of having a ceiling I suppose. The walls were all covered from ceiling to floor with strange markings and chipped paint; the floors were so dirty, I could not tell what they actually looked like; every room I came across had giant doors that were coming off their hinges, much like the main entrance. I explored all over the place, searching rooms that probably belonged to the musicians and rooms that I didn't even want to think about what went on in.

Curious enough, I found that the room that belonged to Noodle, the Japanese girl guitarist of the band, had an enormous chunk missing from its wall, the wall that overlooked the landscape outside. There was a random assortment of animals and debris lying about the place and it stank of the filthy things. Upon close inspection of the room, I saw that the only thing that was untouched was a closet. When I opened it, I immediately regretted it. Inside was the head of a man, giant and hooked up to dozens of machines. I left without touching a single thing.

The rest of the search went about as well as could be expected. I found the entire place in a state of disarray, decay, and disorder, with not a single thing intact and solid. At one point, I discovered a lift that, presumably, went down into the basement, but the blasted thing was just as broken as the rest of the madhouse. Discouraged and left with nothing, not even the slightest of a hint, I tucked myself into my jacket and turned to leave. And that's when I saw HIM. Murdoc Nichols, servant of darkness and damned bassist.

And he was drunk as a skunk.

"Ah, whoozat?" he jeered.

The two of us were in the hallway leading to the lobby, I blocking his path and he blocking mine. I stood as still as possible and used this moment of silence to study the man before me. His skin was a strange shade of green, something I could make out even in the darkness of the hallway. The eyes in his head were yellow and sickly, one iris a different shade than the other. His black hair was matted down on his head; he reeked of something, I couldn't quite place it. It was something like…salt water.

"Who's there? Answer me!" he growled. There was a sort of drunken insanity in his voice, meaning I had to talk my way out of this and fast.

"Muh-muh-mister Nichols," I stammered at first, "my name is Daniel Blake, reporter for the Herald, and I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions. I, uh, tried calling earlier, but the operator said the number had been disconnected."

"That piece of shit phone's been dead for weeks, mate, mostly because I shot it after I got sick of it ringing all the time. Ah-ha-ha," he chuckled.

Thinking he was lightening up, I took a cautious step forward towards the man followed by another. I didn't want to tempt him into anything crazy, after all. "Sir, I came seeking some answers about…" I tried to finish my sentence, but I was distracted by the serpentine tongue that flicked out from behind yellow, crooked teeth. Was that real?

"Answers about what?" he grimaced.

"Oh, uh, about what happened with your guitarist, about the recent video, about the rest of the band's whereabouts and, well, everything," I answered. "It would just take a moment of your time."

"No. Get the hell out; I'm not doing another bleedin' interview, you understand?!"

His temper was flaring again. I had to do something to calm him down. "Mr. Nichols, we don't have to talk if you don't want to. No interview, fine, but I need some answers. What happened to Noodle?" I would not be deterred by scare tactics. At least, that's the feeling I wanted to portray. In reality, I was about ready to shit my pants with fear.

The brave façade did not work, as he took a few steps closer to me and came into the dim light of the hallway. Now that I could see him better, I saw that he was wearing no shirt, no shoes and a pair of white pants. What had he been doing and where had he been that could need that sort of odd attire?

"I am not at liberty to speak about Noodle's whereabouts at the moment, officer. Now, I highly recommend you get out of my studio before you wind up in my pit. And trust me, you would not last five seconds in the pit," he snorted. When he walked past me, he bumped my shoulder and deliberately knocked me out of his way. Murdoc began to grit and grind his teeth, cuing my exit.

I damn near bolted for the door and practically ran to the road. For I knew that if I were to stay in that place, I would most certainly wind up dead.

After that incident, I dropped the assignment. I told my boss about what had happened, and he seemed to be fine with it. Apparently, I was the only reporter to actually get up close and personal with Murdoc Nichols ever since the El Mañana episode, so he commended me and even gave me a raise. That journey haunted me and plagued my thoughts and dreams. Why was there a head inside a closet? What was in that basement? Where had Murdoc Nichols been? I never got the answers to those questions, which I suppose was a good thing.

Two or so years passed after my fateful trip to Kong Studios and I had all but forgotten about it. I no longer cared about what Murdoc was doing, nor did I seek anymore answers about the Gorillaz. I didn't, that is, until I received a most distressing call one day.

One night, I found myself stuck in the office after hours trying to edit an article that was due the next day. There had been a string of disappearances around the world, of celebrities, musicians, and even just random people off the street. Sure this happens all the time, but there were people claiming that there was always a tall man dressed in a black coat and gas mask around the scene of the vanishings. I did some research and found nothing save for an advertisement on Craigslist for some carnie named Sun-Moon-Star. He mentioned setting up game stands any place willing to pay a certain fee, and that was about it.

I was about ready to wrap up when I heard the office door click open. No one was supposed to be here at this hour, so I popped my head up to see what had come in, but there was no one there. The door was still shut and locked. I got back to my work, but that's when the odor hit me. It smelled of death. It smelled of decay. It smelled like…salt water.

And that's when I blacked out.

I do not know who will find this bottle and this letter, but I sincerely hope that whoever does will take the time to read what I've written and lend their aid. I will continue to write more letters in the hope that my story reaches more people in the world. People need to know what's happening on this island of plastic, this plastic beach. Someone needs to know the truth.

Sincerely,

Daniel Blake


	2. Chapter 2

To the reader of this letter:

I sincerely hope that you are the one who found my last letter. Because this would be damn near impossible though, I shall tell you the bare essentials. My name is Daniel Blake and I am being held against my will in some part unknown. With this and other letters I write, I hope to alert people to my predicament and pray for a quick escape from this place. I cannot write for long, for I know that Murdoc will soon be making his rounds. Let me begin where I left off…

A while back, I was working in my office late at night, when suddenly, some sort of gas filtered into the room. Before I fell asleep, I smelt a familiar odor, something that I had only sensed once before, when I visited Kong Studios. It was like the ocean but tainted with the stink of decay and death. It reminded me of Murdoc Nichols, bassist for Gorillaz. I got up from my chair to investigate a noise, but the gas overtook me and I fell into deep sleep.

When I woke up, the entire room felt like it was spinning. I could hear propellers buzzing around me, so I knew that I was in a plane of sorts, but I could not see much else. As my senses came back to me, I found that there were a few other people near me in the cabin of the plane, two men and a woman. The men were seated against the plane and were making idle conversation; I think they were speaking in Vietnamese. I glanced over at the woman and found her to be young Hispanic, no older than twenty. She was pacing about the cabin in a fret, for obvious reason, I suppose, and she looked at me with questioning eyes. I suppose I might have shrugged to her to show my own lack of knowledge on our predicament.

A voice crackled through the lousy speakers in the plane, announcing, "Good morning, Mr. Blake! We were hoping you would wake up soon; your snoring was nearly as bad as the plane engines! All kidding aside, thank you for flying Air Nichols, we hope you enjoy the rest of your trip." When I turned to search for where the voice might have come from, I saw that there was a thick wall separating the cockpit from the cabin. Beautiful.

There was that name again. Nichols. Was it that devil man that put me on this plane? Had he kidnapped these other people and myself? And why would he do such a thing? I decided it would be best to ask the other captives what they knew of the matter. Asking the Vietnamese did nothing, as I learned they did not understand English. But when I was able to get the Hispanic girl to talk to me, she gave me a few details.

"I do not know much, but I think this is a plan that Murdoc made," she said to me. "I was in my dorm room, working on an art project, when I saw this giant man in a black cloak burst out of the floor. No, wait, he didn't burst; he appeared in a puddle of smoke on the floor. And I couldn't see his face too well; it was all covered with a mask. I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth and dragged me into his cloak. The next thing I knew, I was on this plane and lying next to those two guys over there."

So that was it. Murdoc Nichols, or someone working for him, had been kidnapping people. I could only assume that the other two were abductees as well. I had no idea why he would want me though, or why he would want some college girl, but if the musician was anything like I thought he was, it could not have been for any good. Perhaps he meant to get me out of the way; I almost certainly left a bad impression on him when we last met. But why did he want the girl and these two men? It made no sense.

"I suppose asking where we're going wouldn't do any good," I said to the girl, "but I would like to know why you're on this plane."

"What do you mean?" she asked me, obviously confused.

"I mean, what did you do to get Murdoc Nichols to kidnap you?"

"I don't know what you're –"

"Think about it. Why would he risk his career and future for the sake of shanghaiing some freshman, a reporter, and Lord knows how many others? I can only guess right now, but I think that Murdoc is pulling a Nixon move and making a list of his 'enemies'."

She still looked at me as if I had grown a second head, so I explained further. "A few years ago, after Gorillaz had just split up, I went snooping around in their old studio and bumped into Nichols on the way out. He didn't take kindly to my being there, so I bolted, but I can't help but think that he might have developed an animosity towards me. So I'm asking you if you can think of any way you might have attracted Murdoc's attention."

There was a moment of thinking as she tried to find a reason. Finally, she said, "I think I've got it! The band was always using crazy artwork, right? Like, they've got crazy album pictures and designs and stuff, and I'm an artist! Maybe they need me to do art for them!"

"Makes about as much sense as anything else," I told her. In truth, my entire theory was crazy. After all, why couldn't Murdoc just kill us if we earned his ire? Why take us off the map like this?

"If you two ladies are done starting wild goose chases," the crackly voice gargled, "Perhaps you would like to know that we are landing at our destination now."

The wall separating the cockpit and the cabin opened up, so I ran forward along with one of the Vietnamese to see who was piloting the plane. To our horror, there was no one controlling the plane, only a video of some alien from a bad 50s movie. But it wasn't in vain; we saw what the outside world looked like. And though the bright light hurt my eyes initially, I adjusted quickly and watched as we settled down into the ocean.

Our destination was an island, an island with what looked to be a batch of bungalows on one side of the beach. Atop a giant stem of land was a large, futuristic building like something a celebrity owned. A lighthouse sat at attention some distance from us. Palm trees were scattered every which way and swayed in the island breeze. Everywhere I looked, there was pink, nearly red soil that seemed hard and packed, like good clay. On the beach was some white sand that the water gently graced each time a wave swept onto shore. I could not wait to get out and explore this new landscape.

"Thank you for flying Air Nichols, we hope you enjoy your stay at the island," the voice on the screen told us politely.

"Are we really staying on this island?" the Hispanic girl asked.

"Oh yes, Miss Holiday. Welcome to Plastic Beach; we hope you enjoy your stay."

We all shuffled off the plane one after the other once the door opened. The first thing we did when we got outside was clasp our noses shut. Something foul was in the air, like burning plastic and rubber. Worst of all, it smelled like Murdoc Nichols. It was dirty, salty, and reeked of death.

I turned when I heard one of the foreigners shouting in disgust. Holiday looked at where the man pointed and we both reeled at the sight. We saw the ocean surrounding the island, and it was filled with debris, filth, and dead fish of varying species.

"Where in the world are we?" the girl cried.

"Nowhere decent," I told her.

That was my first encounter with the contamination that is Plastic Beach. Little did I know how much worse it could get…

Daniel Blake


End file.
